Secret Soul
by Sapphire Warrioress
Summary: The first was a warrior’s spirit, tempered in the fires of hardship and vengeance. The second was loyal, a spirit gifted with the eyes to look beyond the physical scars of suffering. A glimpse of the strength, compassion and endurance of the human soul.
1. Chapter 1

_Note from the authoress: One of my favorite Sherlock Holmes stories is The Crooked Man._

_I love the BBC production of this tale, as for once Watson plays a more active role in helping Holmes discover what really happened._

_Also the acting in this episode is incredible, Williams and Merrison are amazing, and the actor who played Henry Wood was excellent._

_After listening to the episode I began to wonder, what if Henry Wood had taken Watson's advice._

_So to answer that question, here's this short story. _

_There will probably be 2 chapters, as I'm writing from the perspectives of both Henry and Nancy, although I may add Holmes and Watson's thoughts on this case if anyone would like to read their perspectives._

_The title of this story comes from the amazing musical of Jane Eyre._

_Feedback is welcome._

_Enjoy_

He waited until full dark before approaching the building. With all the fluidity and stealth of which his broken body was capable, he moved cautiously towards the place where his Nancy lay unconscious.

The years of his captivity had robbed him of dignity, health and strength, forcing the instincts which guided the animals of the wild to awaken and rule his actions.

Yet beneath them lay memories of the life his now deceased rival had ruthlessly stolen, long dead formalities and the expected bearing of a soldier which were slowly beginning to return.

Still he hesitated, held back by the fear of what Nancy would say when she saw the full extent of his horrific injuries.

Surely she would turn away, refuse to acknowledge his presence at her bedside. Even now that she knew his story, he could not bring himself to entertain the hope that something of their old affection could still exist.

At last he gathered his courage and firmly grasped the door handle.

The corridors of the hospital were dark and silent; affording him the solitude he so desperately craved for these last steps of his journey.

For a moment he faltered, doubts and fears he had tried for years to suppress once again coming back to haunt and torment his spirit.

If he had still been in India it would have been different. For there he had become accustomed to living amongst people who though they often regarded him with suspicion or horror, at least appreciated the tricks he had learned from their magicians.

But in England he was an outcast in the truest sense of the word. Even soldiers avoided and ridiculed his unusual appearance, forgetting that he had once been counted a friend and fellow comrade in arms.

He had tried to tell himself that it did not matter, that he cared little for the opinions of others. But in the deepest reaches of his soul lay the embers of bitterness and revenge, awaiting the slightest spark to fan them into life.

And it had been that first unexpected sight of his Nancy which had awakened all of the long buried thoughts of vengeance against the man who had betrayed and condemned him to a life of misery.

He had reveled in the touch of her slender fingers, tender and loving as of old. But beneath that fleeting contact lay a deeper sensation, that of strength and compassion for a soul in need.

For the first time in 30 years he looked into the eyes he had never forgotten, and saw the same unshakable loyalty and passion she had gifted him with long ago.

He had watched her face as he told his story, seen a thousand emotions cross those beloved features, before they hardened into a mask of stubborn determination.

And he knew what she was about to do, confront the man who had kept them apart for 3 decades because of his lust for glory and need to possess the woman his rival loved so fiercely.

He had followed her at a distance, and watched as she confronted her husband. In that moment she was more than the girl he had loved, she was an avenging fury come to judge an unspeakable crime.

Fierce pride for his beloved had warred against concern, as he watched shock and incredulity replace apprehension upon the countenance of James Barclay.

When the wretched man had raised his hand to strike, all reason fled in the wave of protective emotion and anger that he had dared to touch his Nancy.

He had moved with all the speed of which his broken body was capable, intending to do all he could to prevent further harm to the woman he still loved.

But that chance was denied, as James Barclay glimpsed the full horror of his fellow soldier's injuries.

The look of sheer terror on the face of Barclay would remain with him the rest of his life, for it was the look of a man who was about to taste death and judgment.

He had imagined this moment for years, but never thought that death would come for his rival through such a curious set of circumstances. To his utter astonishment he felt neither joy nor satisfaction at seeing James Barclay dead, but an unspeakable relief that he had not killed his rival, though he had slain him a thousand times over in his dreams.

Deeper still was a peace beyond understanding, that at last justice had been served.

The sound of voices without demanding entry had prompted him to quickly make his escape.

He had returned to his lodgings, refusing to see anyone until the arrival of Holmes and Watson.

Those men had possessed the same courage Nancy had demonstrated at their first meeting, to look past all he had become. The memory of Dr. Watson's kind words caused a smile to momentarily cross his twisted countenance.

In those two men he had found what he had never expected to receive from another human being. The doctor had addressed him as a fellow soldier, offering him friendship and advice that even now he wasn't sure he should follow.

More than that, he had called him Corporal, restoring by that simple gesture a measure of the respect and honor he had fought so hard to earn.

In Watson he had found a man who knew what it was to go to war, live in another country and absorb its traditions and culture.

Holmes had won his respect by the tenacity with which he had pursued the truth behind his late rival's murder.

His scorn and contempt for the regiment would have angered him in the past, but now he only felt a strange indifference and sorrow that his story would never be heard.

Though the fires of vengeance had long ago cooled, he could not deny the soul deep need for justice, for someone to know the truth of his story.

That desire had been fulfilled when Sherlock Holmes had requested his tale. He could not have asked for a better audience. Holmes had sat throughout the telling offering a comment at intervals, but mostly remaining silent as the truth was finally revealed.

And at the conclusion he had glimpsed what he felt sure only Dr. Watson had ever been privileged to behold.

Within the cool gaze of the detective, he had seen an echo of that same fire, awaiting only his word to give it life.

For a moment he had wavered, emotions he had once thought dead reawakening as he considered the prospect of all he had once longed for coming to pass at last.

But even as these thoughts formed, he knew that he would never answer in the affirmative.

For by telling his story to the detective and his friend, he had found two men who not only understood his suffering, but shared his desire for retribution and contempt for cowardice masquerading as honor and respectability.

And so he had met the questioning gaze of Holmes, and shaken his head firmly, knowing that in this man he had found a person who was willing to speak on his behalf.

And now here he was, about to take the advice of a stranger in the hope that his Nancy might allow him the opportunity to explain, to tell her of everything that had happened since her husband's death.

He found her in a bed near an open window, a still and silent figure unaware of her surroundings.

As he took a seat at her bedside, he thought of all that had led him to accept the doctor's advice, reflecting that his life had in many ways resembled the travels of an ancient hero.

In that moment he was no longer Henry Wood, but Odysseus, returning from a journey of unspeakable suffering and pain, in the hope that a woman as loving and constant as Penelope would find it in her heart to call him friend.

This he knew was all he dared hope for, all he dared expect from the woman he had once hoped to marry.

It had been many years since Henry Wood had prayed, even thought of the Almighty. But as he felt the first stirrings of awareness in the hand he clutched so desperately, he asked only that she would not look on him with revulsion or indifference.

She began to move restlessly, uttering broken sentences which he could not decipher. His reaction was immediate, something which all the years of his enforced exile had not taken.

Low and calming, he spoke gentle words of reassurance, hoping that even in this state she would hear and realize that she was safe.

And at last his efforts were rewarded, as her dark eyes opened, fastening on his twisted and distorted features with a look of shocked recognition, and something else which he could find no word to describe.

"Henry?"


	2. Chapter 2 Nancy

She awoke gradually, aware in some remote corner of her mind that much time had passed.

Disjointed thoughts and impressions passed through her brain in such rapid succession, that she could make little sense of their content or meaning.

Indeed so fast and dizzying were the images which filled her mind, that she was unable to suppress a moan of pain.

Immediately she felt the reassuring warmth of another's presence. The gentle pressure of callused fingers encircling her own brought her peace amidst the storm of raging emotions and memories which would not cease despite all her efforts to focus.

Desperately she clung to the hand grasping her own, welcoming as never before the solidity, warmth and reassurance of physical contact with another human being.

A few moments passed before she felt ready to look at the face of her comforter.

And though she tried to stifle her cry of mingled surprise and horror, a small sound of distress escaped before she could prevent it.

It was no wordless cry or shriek of revulsion, but the simple utterance of a name spoken with astonishment and instinctual fear which forced itself from her throat.

"Henry?"

Lord she had not realized the extent of his injuries. It had been too dark before, and she had been too shocked by his appearance and the tale he had related to pay close attention to the changes in her friend.

Not even the light of the single candle, set upon the table at her bedside could soften the sheer horror of her friend's injuries.

The scars were so numerous that she found it difficult to discover even the smallest section of unmarked skin.

Even though he was seated, she could not fail to observe how his limbs were twisted and deformed by torture, the once straight and proud back looking as if someone had viciously twisted and wrenched it before letting it heal in a grotesque mockery of what it had once been.

The eyes alone were what had given her the clue to the identity of the stranger who had accosted her on the walk home.

Even they had not remained untouched by suffering. How foolish she was to hope that something of her Henry's former good looks had been spared.

And she was falling so easily into the trap of looking only at the outward appearance, when she knew that beneath the scars of war and captivity was the real Henry, the person she had loved so completely 30 years ago.

She recalled her first sight of Henry, as a young soldier in India.

Tall, confident and proud, she had watched him ride past on his way to join his fellow soldiers.

He had ridden as one with his horse; eyes alight with a determined fire and the desire to succeed in his chosen profession.

She had watched him often after that first encounter, been impressed by his skill in weaponry and the stories his comrades had told of his courage in battle.

And in time she had dared to approach and speak to him, tentatively offering friendship in the hopes that it would become something deeper.

That hope had been fulfilled when he had spoken of his love for her, of his desire to someday return from war having done his duty, to marry her and live in peace.

How young they had been then. Planning their future without thought of the price war demanded for all who crossed its path.

They more than anyone should have realized its cost, living as they did so close to the battle and the grim realities of bloody conflict.

But they had refused to see the darker possibilities, would not let themselves think on the truth of their situation believing that all would be well.

She would never forget the night Henry had come to tell her that he was leaving to bring help to their besieged camp.

Of how she had clung to him fiercely, desperately, begging him not to go, to ask another to take his place.

He had gently but firmly broken their embrace, promising that he would do all in his power to return to her with help for their people.

And as he turned to walk away something had told her that she would not see Henry for many years, that they were both to travel roads of great suffering and cruel realization before they would meet again.

But it was more than his prowess in battle and honorable reputation which had attracted her to Henry Wood. For she had seen beyond all that, seen a soul of great strength, passion and courage, who would sacrifice everything for family, friends and homeland.

It was those qualities which she had come to love and admire in the young warrior, far more than his looks or equestrian skill.

A lover of stories, she often thought afterwards that their relationship reflected that of 2 fictional characters, the handsome captain Phoebus and the beautiful Esmeralda.

She had said as much to James during their courtship. He had laughed at her fanciful notions, but in the end had admitted that he understood what she had meant by that comparison.

Had he known then? That the man she had truly loved had fallen neatly into his trap?

Did he ever think of the man he had so cruelly condemned to a life of captivity and torture during the years of their marriage?

How could she not have known the true nature of the man she had married?

Perhaps something beyond reason or emotion had always been aware of the truth of her husband's character. For even in their most intimate moments she had never been able to give herself so completely to James as she knew he desired, or respond to his caresses as she had so often wanted to with Henry.

The procession of recollections continued as she looked at the twisted visage of the man she still loved.

The years of her marriage to James, ordinary, sometimes stormy when their wills had clashed. And above all the feeling that to her husband she was a treasure, to be guarded and kept safe at all costs.

No doubt many women would have been honored to be thought of so highly by their husbands, but she had always found James' attitude of constant watchfulness and adoration stifling and overwhelming. For though his devotion had been passionate, it possessed no true warmth or genuine affection.

How ironic, that only now after his death she had realized that he had never truly known her, shared in her interests, friendships or deep faith in God.

It had been her trust in the Almighty which had sustained her during the dark days after word had come of Henry's death; given her the strength to endure and go on when she thought her world had ended.

And her faith had brought her comfort in the 30 years that followed, grown in depth and commitment as she held fast to the word of God.

And when she had at last heard Henry's story, one word resounded in her soul with all the force of a final judgment.

David.

It had dominated her thoughts, driven her to accuse, demand and hurl insults at the monster masquerading as an honorable commander.

Again and again she had called him by the name of David, infusing the word with all the contempt, loathing and fury she could summon.

And from the depths of her soul she had cried out to the creator, words penned by the man whose name she had just spoken in such anger and pain.

O LORD God, to whom vengeance belongeth;

O God, to whom vengeance belongeth, show thyself.

Lift up thyself, thou judge of the earth:

render a reward to the proud.

LORD, how long shall the wicked,

how long shall the wicked triumph?

How long shall they utter and speak hard things?

and all the workers of iniquity boast themselves?

They break in pieces thy people, O LORD,

and afflict thine heritage.

They slay the widow and the stranger,

and murder the fatherless.

Indeed she had been so consumed by pain and thoughts of vengeance, that she had not realized James was about to strike her down.

Henry's swift entry had been as much of a surprise to her as it was to her husband.

For as long as she lived, she would never forget the sight of James' face, frozen in an expression of utter terror, and the sickening sound of his body falling to the floor as death claimed his soul.

And now she was in the care of strangers, with an old friend near who she knew would always remain loyal.

She could only imagine how difficult it had been for him to come and seek her, knowing that he would rather have avoided encounters with any save her alone.

So she listened with attentive interest, as he told her of all that had occurred since James' death.

And silently she blessed John Watson for giving Henry the advice to come and see her, for it had gifted her with the chance to renew a relationship she had long thought over.

Where the thought came from she didn't know, but as the full import of its meaning struck her she could not hold back a soft laugh of joy and relief.

No longer was he Phoebus in her eyes, he was Quasimodo, eager for the love of his Esmeralda.

And unlike that shallow heroine, she would not turn from the honest affection and devotion which Henry was now offering.

It could never be the same between them, the passage of years and what James had done to them had seen to that.

But as she accepted Henry's help to sit and drink a little water, she dared to hope that in time they might reclaim the love they had shared long ago.

She could not suppress the deep joy which rose up from that part of herself which had never forgotten or ceased to love Henry.

What did she care if people called her improper, a woman to be scorned or pitied because of her status as widow and choice of friends?

She had tasted the fragile glories of wealth, praise and false friendship which they had offered, and had found their company and empty words of flattery a poor substitute for genuine friendship like the one she shared with Anne Morison.

In choosing Henry she would have a companion who could satisfy that deep craving for someone who could share in her interests, faith and life.

And from the secret places of her soul rose up words of hope, desire and trust in the God who had never forsaken his suffering children.

O LORD God of hosts, restore us; Cause Your face to shine upon us, and we will be saved.

She would cling to those words, and the hope they embodied, and as in countless other circumstances place her trust in the creator of all things.

And no matter the outcome she would be forever grateful that Henry had been restored to her, and with him the chance to live as she had not done for the past 30 years.

Nor would she forget the kindness and dedication of Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson to justice and honor, and the advice that had helped to make this future possible.

_Note from the authoress: Thanks so much to everyone who has read and reviewed this story. I love reading all of your comments and am glad you're enjoying this tale._

_This chapter contains quotations from the Psalms which I thought would be appropriate for the story, especially as the story of David and Bathsheba is mentioned at the end of the BBC episode The Crooked Man._

_Emphasis is placed on Nancy's deep religious faith by Holmes at the story's conclusion._

_And given her repetition of the name David, her associating everything that's happened with the biblical account of Uriah's tale I could imagine other relevant quotes from the Psalms definitely coming to mind._

_I'm also a Christian, so my beliefs will tend to pop up in my writing as my faith is very important to me._

_Really, I don't know where I would be without God to help and give me strength._

_Victor Hugo's Hunchback of Notre Dame was published in 1831, and though I'm not sure of the time frame for the events of The Crooked Man I just couldn't resist bringing in a reference to one of my favorite novels._

_Thanks again to everyone who has reviewed._

_I'm enjoying this story so much I've decided to go ahead and write Holmes and Watson's perspectives._

_So keep a lookout for Chapter 3._


	3. Chapter 3 Holmes

I force myself to relax, and my eyes to close as the train continues on its route.

I have asked Watson not to disturb me until we reach our destination, and know that he will honor that request.

There it was again.

That blasted word has haunted my thoughts ever since the beginning of this affair.

No doubt my friend is even now composing some overdramatic title to catch the eyes of all of his devoted readers; he would never miss the opportunity to write up such an intriguing case for the public's enjoyment.

I can picture my friend's excitement at sharing such a mysterious tale with his readers. His delight as he takes care to portray the facts in the most florid and romantic terms possible, and praises my methods which led to the discovery of the truth behind the late Colonel Barclay's death.

He will wax lyrical on the cool and logical attitude I maintained throughout this affair, emphasize my contempt for anything resembling an emotional reaction to any information revealed.

His readers will automatically accept his portrayal of my character; never seek to question what my friend has taken such care to present.

Many with the exception of Watson, my brother and a few close friends, know that I always seek to govern my emotions; otherwise they would often keep me from reaching the truth of the many problems set before me.

But that does not mean that I feel nothing. Instead I choose to keep such reactions from surfacing in posture, voice or expression.

And in this case it is fury which fills me as I consider all that Henry Wood endured during the years of his exile.

Were it not for the persuasive arguments of Watson I would have never consented to keep the facts secret. And the fact that for the sake of the blasted honor of the regiment I must not speak of the true characters of Barclay and Wood is to me a grave wrong.

I care not that the late James Barclay was known as a respected commander, nor for the rigid sense of honor which the military prizes so highly.

Yes, there is a place for honor and many of the other noble emotions which govern the chivalric attitudes of many of my countrymen and soldiers. Indeed such ideas are held sacred in many corners of the world. But what Barclay did poisoned the foundations of such beliefs, and there are many more like him for who words such as honor, faith or reputation mean nothing.

Were it not for such men I would have no profession.

Instead I want to lay the true facts of this despicable story before the world, to shatter the fine reputation of Barclay until he is known for what he is. A traitor to his country, a coward and a faithless human being.

Truly his widow called him David, condemned him in the most damning terms possible.

I should have known as soon as the servants had given me that significant clue, looked into every possible avenue that name presented.

Instead I spent endless hours and energy in fruitless suppositions and inquiries, when all along the key to the mystery lay in one simple name.

Even now after the case is over, I am not satisfied with its outcome.

Watson's comment that I should not sneer at the importance of honor does little to cool my anger.

I know my friend is as furious about the conduct of the late Colonel as I, and yet he is determined to make sure that the reputation of the regiment remains untarnished.

It makes no sense to me, for James Barclay's actions were as far from honorable as night is different from day.

Perhaps if the story were kept silent for the sake of Nancy, I might be able to reconcile myself to the outcome of this affair.

But because men cannot abide the idea that a soldier might not be all they believe, I must keep silent.

And then there is Henry Wood. He has also requested my silence, but at least I can understand his reasons for wishing the knowledge to be kept secret. I might not agree with his decision, but he like Watson has my deepest respect and so I will not break his confidence.

By all rights it is Henry Wood who should receive the honors of a hero, instead because men refuse to acknowledge the deplorable actions of a coward masquerading as a man of courage and integrity, the truth behind this case will never be revealed.

Wood might claim that he does not now desire vengeance, but I know what I saw in his eyes as he told his story. Not vengeance, but a burning desire for someone who could truly understand his pain and suffering, for just one of his countrymen who could share his need for his tale to be received with compassion.

Watson is far more capable than I of offering sympathy and understanding to Wood. He will know how to address a fellow comrade, speak to him in a way I never could, for they share a warrior's code and devotion to duty.

I glance over at Watson, absorbed in his book; his face is relaxed and content. How often will I choose to underestimate him, dismiss his ideas and insights when they have shown themselves to be of equal value to any of my triumphs of deductive reasoning and observation.

How many cases would have benefited from his unique skills if I had had the inclination to ask for his assistance?

At least one good thing has come of this affair, I will Endeavour to never underestimate my friend's talents again, try to ask for his opinions and theories whenever a problem is brought to my attention.

I know he thinks himself my inferior in logical deduction, and I have done nothing to discourage that belief.

It is because I love so passionately the challenges of my profession, and the thrill and triumph of my methods over the accepted tactics of the law, that I do not want to allow even the smallest portion of my victory to be credited to anything other than the logical deductions I so highly favor.

But beyond that is a deeper reason, one which I have struggled to lock away in the deepest recesses of my mind, for I cannot bear to entertain the idea that my worst fear may become reality.

I never want to lead Watson into danger. He will not if I can prevent it become gravely injured, or God forbid taste death because of me.

Yet time and time again he has stood by my side, with the steadfastness of a true warrior and the loyalty of the closest of friends.

I have always known that my efforts the keep him from danger will be futile, that this vow I have renewed seconds ago will be broken once again the moment a case becomes deadly.

And as on those other occasions I can do nothing to stop my dearest friend from accompanying me, though everything within me is urging me to ask him to remain out of the line of fire.

But Watson, as this case has proven to my stubborn mind once again, is a soldier, has learned well the lessons forced upon him by war, hardship and loss.

Would that I also possessed the wisdom my dearest friend learned during his time as a soldier.

But I know only the reports which have made their way back to England of each conflict, the strategies and speculations of those in government, and what little Watson has chosen to share.

I have watched him struggle with his demons through nightmares, longed to know how I might help him battle the specters of memory which continue to haunt him with relentless tenacity.

But in the end, I can only watch and offer what meager support that lies within my power to give, knowing that I can never truly identify with all he has suffered because I have never tasted the realities of war.

He has my deepest respect and gratitude for the sacrifices he has made, and it is for those reasons I often defer to him upon matters of a military nature.

And yet once again this case has shown that I do not truly value his knowledge of a soldier's mind, or consider his insightful comments concerning the various people we encounter worth investigation.

His perspective is so unlike mine, one based not upon logic alone, but a viewpoint where emotional, visual and intellectual impressions lead to intriguing conclusions.

The announcement that we have reached Waterloo Station interrupts my musings.

Watson places a gentle hand on my shoulder, informing me softly that we have reached our destination.

Together we exit the train in a pensive silence, and I cannot help but wonder what thoughts are passing through the mind of my closest friend.

Within a few minutes we find a cab and are on our way back to Bakers Street.

I am tempted to ask Watson about his conversation with Wood, but restrain my curiosity with an effort.

Not every aspect of a case need be known to me, and if I am right my friend helped to restore to a broken man something I suspect he has not known for thirty years.

The chance for friendship, hope and perhaps something deeper if Nancy is as strong and loyal as Ronald Murphy claims.

Such a treasure would help to recompense Henry Wood for all he has endured because of the twisted desires of the late Colonel.

Perhaps in time I might ask Watson for his thoughts on this affair, but for now I am content.

_Note from the authoress: My thanks To KCS, whose excellent portrayal of Holmes was my inspiration for this chapter. I found it easier to write in the first person for this chapter, hopefully it didn't confuse my readers._

_I've a few more ideas for this story, but would love everyone's thoughts on which direction to take this tale._

_I'm definitely including Watson's thoughts, but would anyone like to see James Barclay's perspective?_

_Or perhaps Henry and Nancy's wedding?_

_Any and all ideas are welcome._

_Thanks again for all the great reviews, I appreciate all of you taking the time to leave your thoughts._

_As always feedback for this chapter is greatly appreciated._


	4. Chapter 4 Anne Morrison

If I do not set down in writing the thoughts and fears which continue to plague me I will go mad. Indeed it is only the solid reassurance that none but I and my closest friend will ever read these words which gives me the strength to take up my pen to write. Perhaps I will never look upon these pages after they are filled, or in time I might revisit their contents and wonder why I thought my scribblings to be of such vital import. Nevertheless I must do this, if for no other reason than to assure myself a few hours rest for what remains of this night.

I know that it has long been an accepted practice for a woman to keep a diary, where she might pour out her soul without supposed fear of discovery. I have often scoffed at such romantic tendencies, preferring instead the comfort of a friend who will keep my secrets, or a quiet hour spent in prayer. I consider myself an intelligent woman, and have never given credence to the belief that words consigned to the pages of a diary will forever remain a secret closely guarded by their author. Indeed I know of more than one incident where such information has led to scandal and the ruin of even the most sterling of reputations.

Why then am I now sitting at my window, writing by candlelight? My reasons are not so frivolous as those of countless other women, for I intend to see that this account will be delivered into the hands of my oldest friend, in the hope that after she has read what these pages contain she may find it in her heart to forgive me for what I did.

I spoke only at the insistent urgings of Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes. So firm was their conviction that my testimony could secure my friend's freedom and so sincere Dr. Watson's gentle coaxing that at last I relented. It was not hard to relate the events of that night, for they are firmly imprinted upon my memory and will remain with me the rest of my life. But strongest of all, even than the sight of that disfigured man, was the look of shocked recognition and unwavering affection which filled my friend's dark eyes the instant she saw this stranger's face.

For as long as I have known her, Nancy has proved to be a loyal friend ever ready to help when I am in need. Over the years of our friendship I came to respect her as a woman of strong opinions, who held fast to the promises of our Lord.

That is why I was surprised when she married the respected Colonel Barclay, indeed I recall many a conversation we had before her wedding where I earnestly questioned my friend's choice. At the time I did not consider her response significant, but now that I know or at least suspect some of her reasons I understand why she spoke as she did. Her answer was always the same that James was a respected soldier, a man her parents approved of, and the only available choice.

I sometimes wondered whether she visited me so frequently after her marriage, because she could not face the prospect of returning home. Once I even dared to ask her outright if there was trouble between her and the Colonel, and her hasty reassurances that all was well came too swiftly for me to suppose that she spoke the truth. Not that I believed her husband ever raised a hand to her, for he cared for my friend as tenderly and ardently as if she was his greatest of treasures.

If any man had given me such open adulation, I know I would have found his attentions stifling at the very least. The slight grimace Nancy always wore whenever the subject of James Barclay came up in our conversations led me to suspect that she shared my opinion. Any woman longs for her husband's affections, but not to the extent where he smothers her spirit and dictates her actions.

I am glad that only one other will know my silent speculations, for although I hinted to Nancy that I found her husband to be a trifle overbearing, never did I dare to be as open as I am now when putting these thoughts down on paper.

But despite the strength of our friendship, still there were some confidences which she kept secret from me. Many times over the course of our friendship I watched her succumb to dark thoughts. During those hours she sat as still and silent as a statue, gazing into the fire with an expression of such grief and longing that I could not help inquiring as to the cause of her distress.

Her vague protestations that all was well did nothing to allay my fears, and it was only when she thought I wasn't watching that I learned what little she let slip. In the mist of her sorrow she once spoke, and it was only a name, spoken so low that I strained to discover its meaning.

"Henry." Once I had the courage to ask her who this Henry was, and she reluctantly confided that he was an old friend who had been killed in India during a skirmish.

Whenever I pressed her for more details, assuring her of my continued support and friendship, she only remained silent or turned the conversation to other topics of interest. So things continued on, and whenever I thought of my dear friend's sorrow all I could do was pray that comfort and strength would be given to her in greater measure.

It was not until a few days ago that I learned the truth. The evening was warm, and as usual we chose to walk together to a meeting of the Guild of St. George. All went well until we were on our way home, when a stranger emerged out of the shadows and asked to speak to my friend.

And at last I discovered a small portion of the truth of my friend's deep rooted sorrow as she looked upon the twisted countenance of this stranger. No, not a stranger, for she bestowed on him a look of such tenderness and affection like one would give to the most passionate of lovers.

And once again I heard her speak that name, with such deep tenderness and joy that I immediately withdrew to give the two their privacy. A few moments later my friend rejoined me, and though I did not understand why I did as she bid me and swore to keep this encounter secret.

It was only after the death of the Colonel that I felt my resolve waver and finally shatter under the weight of Mr. Holmes' cool logic and the Dr.'s gentle yet insistent prompting.

It was for Nancy's sake that I dared to break my silence, to inform Mr. Holmes and his friend of what took place on the night of James Barclay's death.

God forgive me, but it had to be done. I could not have lived with myself if I had kept silent while my friend was condemned for a crime she did not commit.

From early childhood I was always taught to regard friendship and its confidences as sacred trusts which should not be broken. I say this only to assure you Nancy that I would not have broken my promise to you unless it was of the utmost importance. In all sincerity I thought only to offer to Mr. Holmes and his companion whatever aid I could give that would clear you of all suspicion.

I pray that after you have read these pages, you might come to understand why I acted as I did, and not judge my choice a betrayal of your trust. If you find my explanation sufficient, send me word as soon as you have recovered enough to receive visitors.

Perhaps you might also introduce me to your Henry, and I might at last learn the details of your history together. I have only conjectures at this point, thoughts that you believed Henry dead after the war and married the Colonel according to the wishes of your family.

I anxiously await your reply.

Anne

_Note from the authoress: I am so sorry for the delay in posting this chapter. Lack of inspiration for this tale, as well as life being busy and my working on stories for my page which take place in Narnia and the world of Greek mythology kept me from posting more for this fic._

_For a while I struggled to write Watson's perspective, but had to give up as I got stuck halfway through and couldn't come up with anything._

_Then this week I was listening to the awesome Sherlock Holmes BBC dramas, and I thought why not write a chapter from Anne Morrison's view instead? After all, if she had not chosen to speak Holmes and Watson might never have discovered the truth, and she receives only a brief mention in the story._

_I hope you enjoyed this chapter and would as always love your feedback._

Thanks_ for reading._


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